Killing Hour - Lisa Gardner [30]
The investigating officer nodded. A second man, also clad in khakis and a white dress shirt, moved in to snap more shots with a digital camera, while several grim-faced Marines stood guard along the yellow-ribbon-draped scene. Even in the deep shade of the woods, the heat and humidity were impossible to escape. Both NCIS special agents had sweated through their long-sleeved shirts, while the young sentries stood with moisture rolling down their chiseled faces.
Now the second special agent, a younger man with the requisite buzz-cut hair and squared-off jaw, looked down the heavily wooded path. “I don’t see drag marks,” he commented.
The ME nodded and moved to the victim’s black sandals. He picked up her foot and studied the heel of her shoe. “No dirt or debris here. She must’ve been carried in.”
“Strong man,” the photographer said.
The first special agent gave them both a look. “We are on a Marine base cooccupied by FBI trainees; they’re all strong men.” He nodded back toward the victim. “What’s with the mouth?”
The ME put his hand on her cheeks, turned her head from side to side. Then suddenly, he flinched and snatched his hand away.
“What?” the older agent asked.
“I don’t . . . Nothing.”
“Nothing? What kind of nothing?”
“Trick of the light,” the ME muttered, but he didn’t put his hand back on the girl’s face. “Looks like sewing thread,” he said curtly. “Thick, maybe like what’s used for upholstery. It’s certainly not medical. The stitching is too rudimentary to be a professional’s. Just small flecks of blood, so the mutilation probably occurred postmortem.”
There was a green leaf caught in the girl’s tangled blond hair. The ME distractedly pulled it free and let it flutter away. He moved on to her hands, flung above her head. One was curled closed. Gently, he unrolled her fingers. Inside her grip, nestled against her palm, was a jagged green-gray rock.
“Hey,” he called to the younger special agent. “Want to get a picture of this?”
The kid obediently came over and snapped away. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. A rock of some kind. Going to bag and tag?”
“Right.” The kid fetched an evidence container. He dropped the rock in and dutifully filled out the top form.
“No obvious defensive wounds. Oh, here we go.” The ME’s gloved thumb moved up her left arm to a red, swollen patch high on her shoulder. “Injection mark. Just the faintest bruising, so it probably occurred right before death.”
“Overdose?” the older agent asked with a frown.
“Of some kind. An intramuscular injection isn’t very common for drugs; they’re generally administered intravenously.” The ME lifted the girl’s skirt again. He inspected the inside of her thighs, then moved down to between her toes. Finally, he inspected the webbing between her index finger and thumb. “No track marks. Whatever happened, she’s not a habitual user.”
“Wrong place at the wrong time?”
“Possibly.”
Older Special Agent sighed. “We’re going to need an ID right away. Can you print her here?”
“I’d prefer to wait until the morgue, when we can test her hands for blood and skin samples. If you’re in a real hurry, though, you can always check her purse.”
“What?”
The ME smiled broadly, then took pity on the Naval cop. “Over there, on the rock outside the crime-scene tape. The black leather backpack thingy. My daughter has one just like it. It’s very hip.”
“Of all the stupid, miserable, incompetent . . .” Older Special Agent wasn’t very happy. He got the kid to photograph the purse, then had two sentries expand the crime-scene perimeter to include the leather bag. Finally, with gloved hands, he retrieved the item. “Note that we need to take full inventory,” he instructed his assistant. “For now, however, we’ll detail the wallet.”
The kid set down the camera and immediately took up paper and pencil.
“Okay, here we go. Wallet, also black leather . . . Let’s see, it contains a grocery store card, a Petco card, a Blockbuster card, another grocery store card, and